by Tara Moss
‘What brought you here, exactly?’ she asked.
‘You’ve been out all night?’ It was the tall one asking the question.
‘I’m afraid so,’ she said. It wouldn’t be great for her reputation, but the alternative was less appealing, so to hell with appearances. ‘I don’t make a habit of it, but I closed an important case last week and it’s taken till now to get the time to celebrate. I was out with my secretary – or I guess you could call him my assistant.’
He absorbed that. It was hard to gauge what he thought of it, now that he’d recovered his professional veneer.
‘Perhaps you’ve met him? Samuel Baker. He was one of the Rats of Tobruk. 2/23rd Battalion, 26th Brigade, 9th Division. Where did you serve?’
He sidestepped her question. ‘You’re a private inquiry agent, I take it,’ he said.
She nodded. Hatchet Face continued his bumbling around in the background. He was in her bathroom now.
‘An anonymous call about something, was it?’ she pressed.
‘Yeah,’ Hatchet Face replied, emerging. His jaw was pushed out, his eyes small. He wasn’t as good at veneers.
‘It must have been a trusted source to bring a detective inspector out so early,’ Billie added casually.
‘Yeah,’ the constable grunted.
‘Anonymity isn’t what it used to be, I guess,’ Billie commented.
Silence hung heavy in the air. The inspector stood by the closed front windows, observing the exchange, his hands in his pockets and those pale eyes of his not missing a thing. Hatchet Face began bustling around again, now with even less grace, opening and closing cupboards in the kitchen and making a show of things, as if he hadn’t already failed to see what was supposed to be there waiting for them, clear as day.
Billie walked to the large front windows and peered down at the street. Her flat was at the furthermost north-eastern corner of the building, providing a good vantage point for watching the passing traffic on Edgecliff Road below. A block or so back from the driveway of Cliffside Flats was the parked Vauxhall. Yes, there was someone in that car, she sensed. Perhaps the same person who’d tailed her that day to the Browns’ fur shop in the Strand Arcade. How did that fit into the picture? ‘The Vauxhall down there. He one of yours?’ she asked the detective inspector casually.
‘The Vauxhall?’
‘Yes. I think there’s someone watching the building.’
‘Not one of ours,’ the inspector said with ease, but she sensed Hatchet Face, who’d returned to the living room, stiffen.
Billie turned a dining room chair around and sat down. ‘The offer of tea still stands,’ she said to the inspector. ‘Or coffee.’
‘No thank you, miss,’ he replied, folding his arms.
‘Are you a recent transfer?’ she ventured. ‘I don’t believe I’ve heard your name before. Do you know Special Sergeant Lillian Armfield? Please pass on my regards if you see her. I owe her a call.’
Detective Inspector Cooper wasn’t biting. He’d closed up like a clam. A polite clam, but a clam nonetheless.
Hatchet Face was scowling and looking flushed. ‘Didn’t you call in a stiff last night?’ he asked gruffly.
‘That I did, officer.’ She threw one arm over the back of the chair and looked at him, wondering where he’d go with it. ‘At the People’s Palace.’
‘Then you went out on the town, after that? Geez, you dames are whacky. Seeing a stiff makes ’em all excited,’ he said to the other man as if he needed an audience, all the while laughing at his own joke.
‘Don’t tell me you never take a drink after coming face to face with a stiff?’ Billie queried with a level gaze, and the grin dropped from his face like a lead bubble. The inspector exhaled suddenly from his position by the window. She didn’t look at him. She kept her gaze on Hatchet Face, but he wouldn’t look at her now. His skin had turned beet red and he was clenching his fists harder than a pauper grips a coin. Given different company, one of those fists might have tried landing on her.
‘There wasn’t anyone there, anyhow,’ the constable managed after a moment of recovery, his repartee delivered with less confidence now. ‘This one just dreams of stiffs,’ he announced. That got him chortling to himself again. He was a regular one-man show, and his own audience. The inspector kept watching.
‘I did not imagine it, officer. He was there in his room at the Palace,’ Billie said earnestly. Her sincerity was wasted on the constable, though the inspector was watching her carefully, in silence. ‘A dead person is not something one imagines.’
‘What were you doing there, in some man’s room, anyway?’ It was Hatchet Face again. He really had it in for her. She’d like to know why.
‘His name was Zervos,’ she explained in a professional tone. ‘Con Zervos. He worked as a doorman at The Dancers on George Street, off Victory Lane, and he wanted to talk with me, just like I told you coppers last night. It was late because it was after he got off work. The Dancers closes at one.’
‘You accept a lot of invitations up to men’s rooms in the middle of the night?’
Billie let that ride. ‘Are you finished here, or do you want to go through my panty drawer?’ she asked him.
‘I think we’re finished,’ the inspector said, seeming to have seen and heard quite enough. ‘Thank you for your time, miss. Sorry to have bothered you.’
She stood and handed the inspector her business card. ‘If you need to ask me any questions, you know where to find me. I’ll be here or at my office in Daking House. I was not making up what I saw last night, Inspector. I don’t know what brought you here today, but I’d surely like to know.’
He turned her card over in long, elegant fingers.
‘Helluva thing, a pretty dame like you mixed up in a business like this,’ Hatchet Face said. He just couldn’t shut up. Billie’s patience had worn thin. He turned to the inspector and added, ‘Her pop was a private dick, you know. Barry Walker. He was a copper once too. Poor bastard would be turning over in his grave right about now,’ he said, looking at her with small, glinting eyes. ‘His own little girl . . .’
Billie felt her temper rise, nearly get the better of her. Her face felt warm. A few seconds ticked over while she resisted his bait, resisted her fury. Bringing her late father into it was low. ‘Well, if you’re finished with me, I could use some beauty sleep,’ she said with an effort, using that professional smile again. She walked to the front door and put her hand on the knob. ‘Good day.’
Once the men were in the hallway she closed her door unceremoniously. The constable knew who’d called the police. Maybe the inspector did, too. She found herself at the window, catching sight of the pair as they made their way down the sloping drive to the road and back to their motor car. She’d have to pay a visit to that detective inspector, she thought, watching him. To her surprise, he broke away from his partner and approached the Vauxhall parked down the curved street. Before she knew it he was leaning over the driver’s side, talking to someone, while Dennison hung back. The constable shook his head and kicked at the footpath, as transparent as a child. After a short exchange, the car door opened and a man got out, reluctantly it seemed.
Well, well, what do we have here?
Billie Walker recognised him. It was another private inquiry agent. Vincenzo Moretti was his name. He was rumoured to be involved with the Black Hand or the Camorra, secretive Italian-Australian criminal gangs known for extortion rackets and violence, a rumour Billie had always found convincing. He had hated Billie’s father with a passion and her father had warned her about him. Something about his days as a cop, but she didn’t know the details. He had given Moretti some trouble and Moretti never stopped giving it back, it seemed. Rival PIs didn’t always get on, naturally enough, but it wasn’t as if there was so much dough in the biz that it was worth trying to make trouble for other agencies. No, his hatred for Billie was different, inherited. Something personal. And now here Moretti was, parked outside her flat at eight on a Sunday m
orning. And what an interesting morning to be there.
Down on the street the conversation had finished. Moretti was getting back into his Vauxhall, his shoulders sloped, and the tall inspector had made his way back to Dennison. Before they slipped out of sight, Inspector Cooper looked up and caught Billie at her window. She couldn’t read his face.
* * *
It was two hours later when Sam came around in a Ford Prefect with a luggage rack, perfectly suited to the task. As instructed, he was wearing a suit, a pair of round glasses and a tan cap low on his head, not for all the world the man who had been at the same address just a short time earlier. He disappeared into Cliffside Flats and emerged with a late middle-aged woman in a cloche and a loose-fitting, drop-waisted light tweed coat. He held her gently at the elbow and helped her into the waiting car before loading her many suitcases. One was a large, heavy trunk.
Twenty-five minutes later, interested onlookers would have noticed Alma McGuire, lady’s maid to Baroness von Hooft, entering Cliffside Flats, seemingly returning from a Sunday morning stroll. Only the keenest of observers would have spotted that her walking shoes looked remarkably similar to those worn by the woman with the cloche.
Chapter Seventeen
It was the start of an uncertain afternoon, the follow-up to a surreally unpleasant morning, and the street in Paddington where Billie and Sam stood was a visual feast of Rolls-Royce and Cadillac limousine automobiles delivering what to Billie appeared to be Sydney’s most wealthy and chic citizens. She observed her surroundings as if through a telescope, at a distance, the display so blue-blooded, so polished and civilised, it hardly seemed to be from the same world she’d woken to. Here the well-dressed arrived by way of uniformed chauffeur and were escorted by men in crisp suiting through the open double doors of a two-level historic sandstone building. Billie spotted an understated sign with delicate gold filigree lettering set against a deep black background hanging by the doors, confirming that they had indeed found the location of the auction house mentioned in the advertisement to which Adin Brown had evidently taken such exception.
Georges Boucher Auction House, it said.
She looked the building over as they approached. Iron gate, presently open. Perfect green hedges. Trimmed topiaries. A modestly sized well-kept garden of traditional English flowers. Like many of Sydney’s older establishments it was tightly nestled between other buildings of a similar vintage. This one had that immaculately kept and tastefully understated look that seemed always to guarantee extortionate prices. Though Billie could handle herself in almost any social circle, she felt more like an interloper than usual, particularly on this day, which had started in so undignified a manner. A nap, several large cups of tea and a vigorous shower had restored her sufficiently for the afternoon’s auction, something she had no intention of missing, particularly if the unfortunate set-up that morning had been concocted to ensure that she did not darken the doorway of this particular establishment.
‘Well, this is toff central,’ she heard her assistant mutter under his breath as they strolled arm in arm towards the moneyed throng. ‘Sorry, Ms Walker,’ he apologised almost immediately, doubtless recalling that her mother was a baroness.
‘Not at all, Sam. This is, as you say, toff central,’ she agreed and smiled warmly at her companion, who had today gone well and truly above the call of duty. I guess I’m half toff, she considered, thinking of her socially mismatched yet perfectly romantically compatible parents, and wishing for the moment that her bank account reflected her toff side a touch better. This was the kind of setting where one noticed just how little power and wealth one possessed. But she was far luckier than most and she rarely forgot it, not after all she’d seen. And she was certainly luckier than poor Con Zervos, who deserved so much better than the card he’d been dealt – one she hoped young Adin Brown had not also found himself holding.
Men in expensive tailoring and women in custom-made dresses and fanciful millinery passed them. Lustrous pearls and gems glittered and shone in the sunlight, worn on ears and fingers and over gloves on frail wrists. Shoes were shined and spotless, as if unmarred by anything as lowly as ground or footpath. Sam had parked in the alley at the back, and that seemed particularly prudent considering his Ford utility spoke more of ‘rustic charm’ than old money. Billie gave him a nod and they moved between the trimmed hedges and through the open gate towards the crowded entrance of the auction house. They made an attractive pair, and were noticeably younger than most of the crowd, many of whom were elegantly silver-haired beneath their homburgs, bowlers, jewelled turbans and cartwheel hats.
Sam was wearing his good light wool suit of French navy, which she’d had made for him, a complementary necktie of browns, navy and lighter blues chosen to match his light eyes and a brown leather belt and brogues, the latter not entirely broken in. The outfit had often been deployed for the courtroom. Between his black tie the night before, the pin-striped suit he wore at the office, his retired army uniform and what he was wearing today, this was likely close to the entirety of Sam’s wardrobe, she reflected.
Billie herself had made particular sartorial effort this afternoon, wearing a square-shouldered but feminine dress in light grey with a shining hunter-green silk edge and carefully tied silk bow at the waist, teamed with matching hunter-green gloves. She’d made it from a Vogue Couturier Design pattern, and as with all her homemade garments, it had been time consuming, but the resulting fit was immaculate. It fell just below the knee, with an A-line skirt that allowed Billie’s desired range of movement without wasting unnecessary fabric coupons. A small raffia and silk topper sat on an angle over her dark wavy hair, a thin black veil covering one eye and skimming her cheekbone, and a pair of round, darkly tinted glasses completed the look, along with a faux pearl brooch and earrings. The hemline and mid-height heel were just right for day wear, but the textures were strategically luxurious. The silk Billie had used was a beautiful weight and had been saved from before the war. Meanwhile, her near-black crepe dress of the night before was relegated to the back of the laundry cupboard, possibly to become dish rags in the near future.
Billie straightened her shoulders. ‘Into the lion’s den?’ she suggested playfully.
‘Into the lion’s den,’ Sam replied. ‘And I must say, you look a picture.’ He tipped his deep-brown fedora to her. He looked the part himself. You’d never have thought he’d spent his morning sneaking a dead body around in a trunk.
Up a couple of sandstone steps and they were in, moving across Persian carpets and passing ornate antiques, the air in the auction house cooler than on the street and scented with freshly cut flowers in baroque vases and, beneath that, the aroma of furniture polish. Guests were milling about, exchanging small talk and sipping refreshments. Printed catalogues were offered, and Billie took one. The walls on all sides were draped in heavy velvet curtains, giving the impression they might be drawn back at any time to reveal some unseen marvel. There was a podium on a small raised stage at the front, with perhaps two dozen folding chairs set up to face it. On the stage and all around it were what appeared to be priceless objects of all sizes. Through a door on the left, aproned and white-gloved staff came and went carrying still more treasures. The guests were of at least as much interest as the wares on offer, Billie mused, and it seemed she was not the only one to think so, as several patrons openly looked at her as she discreetly surveyed the assembly. Fleetingly, she wondered how many of this crowd knew each other. It did seem to be quite a clique. Perhaps this was part of what made her presence of interest – she and her companion were not regulars.
Most of the women in the room wore fur of some type, Billie noticed, many favouring imported fox stoles, glass eyes staring out from the creatures’ stuffed heads. Would business pick up for the Brown family if the fashion kept up? Rationing and the restrictions on luxury items had evidently not impacted this crowd too greatly. Had any of them shopped at the Browns’ shop? Met Adin? Billie took note of faces, filing the
m in her formidable memory bank.
‘Let’s sit,’ she suggested.
They moved to chairs at the end of the fifth row. Billie handed Sam the auction catalogue and asked him to look for the items advertised in the clipping Adin had ripped out while she continued to survey the crowd.
In front of them a man in a three-piece suit with bow-tie moved to the podium, and the din of the crowd subsided. ‘Please be seated. The auction will begin shortly,’ he announced, conducting himself in a sedate and formal manner that wouldn’t have been amiss in a mortician.
Sam looked up from the catalogue. ‘Do you want me to get you anything before things get started?’ he asked quietly.
She pulled her dark glasses off and locked eyes with him. ‘I don’t think we’ll be needing a paddle,’ she replied. This auction was too rich for her blood, at least on her father’s side, but looking at the crowd, only half of whom were carrying paddles, it didn’t seem out of place to watch.
‘Champagne?’ he suggested, nodding towards the servers who were circling with their silver trays.
‘Never again,’ she countered and shifted in her seat. ‘Well, not this week anyway.’
The next ninety minutes passed uneventfully in the numbingly lavish room, the pieces on auction coming and going until they blended together in one decorative procession, unreachable for Billie’s bank book. There was no sign of Adin Brown, even as the carved sideboard that featured in the newspaper advertisement was displayed and sold. The portly Georges Boucher mingled selectively, greeting favoured customers then disappearing into the mysterious realm beyond the black curtains. Billie looked for the couples he’d been with at The Dancers, but did not spot them.
Perhaps it was the strange twenty-four hours she’d had, but attending the auction gave Billie strongly conflicting feelings about family, wealth and property. She couldn’t help but speculate that some of the pieces represented the downfall of once-great families, or the passing away of loved ones whose most beloved possessions were no longer valued by the living, except as objects to fetch a price. There was, for instance, the strangely heart-tugging sale of a Victorian writing box embellished with silver and mother-of-pearl inlays and engraved with the name Rose Cox. Within the velvet-lined box was a card inscribed ‘In Loving Remembrance’ of one Rose Hannah Caroline Klimpton, no doubt the girl’s married name, who’d ‘Died September 1, 1897, aged 26’. How had this found its way under the hammer? Such occurrences were not rare, Billie supposed, but something about the sadness of the discarded writing box and its once-cherished owner almost compelled Billie to purchase it. Auctions were places of loss or discovery, depending on which end you sat.